Читать книгу Artists in Crime - Ngaio Marsh, Ngaio Marsh - Страница 8

Lady Alleyn knelt back on her gardening-mat and looked up at her son.

‘I think we have done enough weeding for today, darling. You bustle off with that barrow-load and then we’ll go indoors and have a glass of sherry and a chat. We’ve earned it.’

Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn obediently trundled off down the path, tipped his barrow-load on the smudge fire, mopped his brow and went indoors for a bath. Half an hour later he joined his mother in the drawing-room.

‘Come up to the fire, darling. There’s the sherry. It’s a bottle of the very precious for our last evening.’

‘Ma’am,’ said Alleyn, ‘you are the perfect woman.’

‘No, only the perfect mamma. I flatter myself I am a very good parent. You look charming in a dinner jacket, Roderick. I wish your brother had some of your finish. George always looks a little too hearty.’

‘I like George,’ said Alleyn.

‘I quite like him, too,’ agreed his mother.

‘This is really a superlative wine. I wish it wasn’t our last night, though. Three days with the Bathgates, and then my desk, my telephone, the smell of the yard, and old Fox beaming from ear to ear, bless him. Ah well, I expect I shall quite enjoy it once I’m there.’

‘Roderick,’ said Lady Alleyn, ‘why wouldn’t you come to Tatler’s End House with me?’

‘For the very good reason, little mum, that I should not have been welcomed.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Miss Troy doesn’t like me.’

‘Nonsense! She’s a very intelligent young woman.’

‘Darling!’

‘The day I called I suggested she should dine with us while you were here. She accepted.’

‘And put us off when the time came.’

‘My dear man, she had a perfectly good excuse.’

‘Naturally,’ said Alleyn. ‘She is, as you say, a very intelligent young woman.’

Lady Alleyn looked at the portrait head that hung over the mantelpiece.

‘She can’t dislike you very much, my dear. That picture gives the lie to your theory.’

‘Aesthetic appreciation of a paintable object has nothing to do with personal preferences.’

‘Bosh! Don’t talk pretentious nonsense about things you don’t understand.’

Alleyn grinned.

‘I think you are being self-conscious and silly,’ continued Lady Alleyn grandly.

‘It’s the lady that you should be cross about, not me.’

‘I’m not cross, Roderick. Give yourself another glass of sherry. No, not for me.’

‘Anyway,’ said Alleyn, ‘I’m glad you like the portrait.’

‘Did you see much of her in Quebec?’

‘Very little, darling. We bowed to each other at mealtimes and had a series of stilted conversations in the lounge. On the last evening she was there I took her to the play.’

‘Was that a success?’

‘No. We were very polite to each other.’

‘Ha!’ said Lady Alleyn.

‘Mamma,’ said Alleyn, ‘you know I am a detective.’ He paused, smiling at her. ‘You look divine when you blush,’ he added.

‘Well, Roderick, I shan’t deny that I would like to see you married.’

‘She wouldn’t dream of having me, you know. Put the idea out of your head, little mum. I very much doubt if I shall ever have another stilted conversation with Miss Agatha Troy.’

The head parlourmaid came in.

‘A telephone call from London for Mr Roderick, m’lady.’

‘From London?’ asked Alleyn. ‘Oh Lord, Clibborn, why didn’t you say I was dead?’

Clibborn smiled the tolerant smile of a well-trained servant, and opened the door.

‘Excuse me, please, Mamma,’ said Alleyn, and went to the telephone.

As he unhooked the receiver, Alleyn experienced the little prick of foreboding that so often accompanies an unexpected long-distance call. It was the smallest anticipatory thrill and was succeeded at once by the unhappy reflection that probably Scotland Yard was already on his track. He was not at all surprised when a familiar voice said:

‘Mr Alleyn?’

‘That’s me. Is it you, Watkins?’

‘Yes, sir. Very pleasant to hear your voice again. The Assistant

Commissioner would like to speak to you, Mr Alleyn.’

‘Right!’

‘Hullo, Mr Alleyn?’ said a new voice.

‘Hullo, sir.’

‘You can go, Watkins.’ A pause, and then: ‘How are you, Rory?’

‘Very fit, thanks, sir.’

‘Ready for work?’

‘Yes. Oh, rather!’

‘Well now, look here. How do you feel about slipping into the saddle three days before you’re due? There’s a case cropped up a few miles from where you are, and the local people have called us in. It would save time and help the department if you could take over for us.’

‘Certainly, sir,’ said Alleyn, with a sinking heart. ‘When?’

‘Now. It’s a homicide case. Take the details. Address, Tatler’s End House.’

‘What! I beg your pardon, sir. Yes?’

‘A woman’s been stabbed. Do you know the place, by any chance?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Thrrree minutes.’

‘Extend the call, please. Are you there, Rory?’

‘Yes,’ said Alleyn. He noticed suddenly that the receiver was clammy.

‘It belongs to the artist, Miss Agatha Troy.’

‘I know.’

‘You’ll get the information from the local super—Blackman—who’s there now. The model has been killed, and it looks like murder.

‘I—can’t—hear.’

‘The victim is an artist’s model. I’ll send Fox down with the other people and your usual kit. Much obliged. Sorry to drag you back before Monday.’

‘That’s all right, sir.’

‘Splendid. I’ll expect your report. Nice to see you again. Goodbye.’

‘Goodbye, sir.’

Alleyn went back to the drawing-room.

‘Well?’ began his mother. She looked up at him, and in a moment was at his side. ‘What’s the matter, old man?’

‘Nothing, ma’am. It was the Yard. They want me to take a case near here. It’s at Tatler’s End House.’

‘But what is it?’

‘Murder, it seems.’

‘Roderick!’

‘No, no. I thought that, too, for a moment. It’s the model. I’ll have to go at once. May I have the car?’

‘Of course, darling.’ She pressed a bell-push, and when Clibborn came, said: ‘Mr Roderick’s overcoat at once, Clibborn, and tell French to bring the car round quickly.’ When Clibborn had gone she put her hand on Alleyn’s. ‘Please tell Miss Troy that if she would like to come to me—’

‘Yes, darling. Thank you. But I must see what it’s all about first. It’s a case.’

‘Well, you won’t include Agatha Troy among your suspects, I hope?’

‘If there’s a question of that,’ said Alleyn, ‘I’ll leave the service. Good night. Don’t sit up. I may be late.’

Clibborn came in with his overcoat.

‘Finish your sherry,’ ordered his mother. He drank it obediently. ‘And, Roderick, look in at my room, however late it is.’

He bowed, kissed her lightly, and went out to the car.

It was a cold evening with a hint of frost on the air. Alleyn dismissed the chauffeur and drove himself at breakneck speed towards Tatler’s End House. On the way, three vivid little pictures appeared, one after another, in his mind. The wharf at Suva. Agatha Troy, in her old smock and grey bags, staring out over the sea while the wind whipped the short hair back from her face. Agatha Troy saying goodbye at night on the edge of the St Lawrence.

The headlights shone on rhododendrons and tree-trunks, and then on a closed gate and the figure of a constable. A torch flashed on Alleyn’s face.

‘Excuse me, sir—’

‘All right. Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn from the Yard.’

The man saluted.

‘They’re expecting you, sir.’

The gate swung open, and Alleyn slipped in his clutch. It was a long winding drive, and it seemed an age before he pulled up before a lighted door. A second constable met him and showed him into a pleasant hall where a large fire burned.

‘I’ll tell the superintendent you’ve arrived, sir,’ said the man, but as he spoke, a door on Alleyn’s left opened and a stout man with a scarlet face came out.

‘Hullo, hullo! This is very nice. Haven’t seen you for ages.’

‘Not for ages,’ said Alleyn. They shook hands. Blackman had been superintendent at Bossicote for six years, and he and Alleyn were old acquaintances. ‘I hope I haven’t been too long.’

‘You’ve been very quick indeed, Mr Alleyn. We only rang the Yard half an hour ago. They told us you were staying with her ladyship. Come in here, will you?’

He led the way into a charming little drawing-room with pale-grey walls and cerise-and-lemon-striped curtains.

‘How much did they tell you from the Yard?’

‘Only that a model had been knifed.’

‘Yes. Very peculiar business. I don’t mind telling you I’d have liked to tackle it myself, but we’ve got our hands full with a big burglary case over at Ronald’s Cross, and I’m short-staffed just now. So the Chief Constable thought, all things considered, and you being so handy, it’d better be the Yard. He’s just gone. Sit down, and I’ll give you the story before we look at the body and so on. That suit you?’

‘Admirably,’ said Alleyn.

Blackman opened a fat pocketbook, settled his chins, and began.

‘This property, Tatler’s End House, is owned and occupied by Miss Agatha Troy, R.A., who returned here after a year’s absence abroad, on September 3rd. During her absence the house was occupied by a Miss Katti Bostock, another painter. Miss Troy arranged by letter to take eight resident pupils from September to December, and all of these were already staying in the house when she arrived. There was also a Sonia Gluck, spinster aged 22, an artist’s model, engaged by Miss Bostock for the coming term. The classes began officially on the 10th, but they had all been more or less working together since the 3rd. From the 10th to Friday the 16th they worked from the model every morning in the studio. On the 16th, three days ago, the class disbanded for the weekend, in order that members might attend a function in London. The servants were given Friday night off, and went to a cinema in Baxtonbridge. One student, Wolf Garcia, no permanent address, remained alone in the studio. The house was closed. Garcia is believed to have left on Saturday the 17th, the day before yesterday. Miss Troy returned on Saturday at midday and found Garcia had gone. The others came back on Sunday, yesterday, by car, and by the evening bus. This morning, September 19th, the class reassembled in the studio, which is a detached building situated about a hundred yards to the south-east of the rear eastward corner of the house. Here’s the sketch plan of the house and studio,’ said the superintendent in a more normal voice. ‘And here’s another of the studio interior.’

‘Splendid,’ said Alleyn, and spread them out before him on a small table. Mr Blackman coughed and took up the burden of his recital.

‘At ten-thirty the class, with the exception of Garcia, who, as we have seen, had left, was ready to begin work. Miss Troy had given instructions that they were to start without her. This is her usual practice, except on the occasions when a new pose is to be set. The model lay down to resume the pose which she had been taking since September 10th. It was a recumbent position on her back. She lay half on a piece of silk material and half on the bare boards of the dais known as the model’s “throne”. The model was undraped. She lay first of all on her right side. One of the students, Miss Valmai Seacliff, of No. 8, Partington Mews, WC4, approached the model, placed her hands on Gluck’s shoulders and thrust the left shoulder firmly over and down. This was the usual procedure. Gluck cried out “Don’t!” as if in pain, but as she habitually objected to the pose, Miss Seacliff paid no attention, shifted her hands to the model’s chest, and pressed down. Gluck made another sound, described by Miss Seacliff as a moan, and seemed to jerk and then relax. Miss Seacliff then said: “Oh, don’t be such a fool, Sonia,” and was about to rise from her stooping posture when she noticed that Gluck was in an abnormal condition. She called for the others to come. Miss Katti Bostock followed by two students, Mr Watt Hatchett, an Australian, and Mr Francis Ormerin, a Frenchman, approached the throne. Hatchett said: “She’s taken a fit.” Miss Bostock said: “Get out of the way.” She examined the body. She states that the eyelids fluttered and the limbs jerked slightly. Miss Bostock attempted to raise Gluck. She placed her hand behind the shoulders and pulled. There was a certain amount of resistance, but after a few seconds the body came up suddenly. Miss Seacliff cried out loudly that there was blood on the blue silk drape. Mr Ormerin said: “Mong dew, the knife!”’

Mr Blackman cleared his throat and turned a page.

‘It was then seen that a thin triangular blade protruded vertically through the drape. It appeared to be the blade of some sort of dagger that had been driven through a crack in the dais from underneath. It has not been moved. It seems that later on, when Miss Troy arrived, she stopped anybody from touching the dais as soon as she saw what had occurred. On examining Gluck a wound was discovered in the back somewhere about the position of the fourth rib and about three inches to the left of the spine. There was an effusion of blood. The blade was stained with blood. Miss Bostock attempted to staunch the wound with a rag. At this point Miss Troy arrived, and immediately sent Mr Basil Pilgrim, another student, to ring up the doctor. Dr Ampthill arrived ten minutes later and found life was extinct. Miss Troy states that Gluck died a few minutes after she—Miss Troy—arrived at the studio. Gluck made no statement before she died.’

Mr Blackman closed his notebook, and laid it on the table.

‘That’s just from notes,’ he said modestly. ‘I haven’t got it down in a ship-shape report yet.’

‘It is sufficiently clear,’ said Alleyn. ‘You might have been giving it to a jury.’

An expression of solemn complacency settled down among the superintendent’s chins.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘we haven’t had a great deal of time. It’s a curious business. We’ve taken statements from all this crowd, except, of course, the man called Garcia. He’s gone, and we haven’t got a line on him. That looks a bit funny on the face of it, but it seems he said he’d be leaving for a hiking trip on Saturday morning, and is due to turn up at some place in London in about a week’s time. He left his luggage to be forwarded to this London address, and it had all gone when Miss Troy returned on Saturday about three o’clock. We’re trying to get on to the carrier that called for it, but haven’t got hold of anybody yet. It was all in the studio. It seems Garcia slept in the studio and had his gear there. I’ve got into touch with the police stations for fifty miles round and asked them to look out for this Garcia. Here’s the description of him: Height— about five foot nine; sallow complexion, dark eyes, very thin. Thick dark hair, rather long. Usually dressed in old grey flannel trousers and a raincoat. Does not wear a hat. Probably carrying a rucksack containing painting materials. It seems he does a bit of sketching as well as sculping. We got that in the course of the statements made by the rest of this crowd. Will you look at the statements before you see anybody?’

Alleyn thought for moment.

‘I’ll see Miss Troy first,’ he said. ‘I have met her before.’

‘Have you, really? I suppose with her ladyship being as you might say a neighbour—’

‘The acquaintance is very slight,’ said Alleyn. ‘What about the doctors?’

‘I said I’d let Ampthill know as soon as you came. He is the police surgeon. He heads the list in the directory, so Mr Pilgrim rang him first.’

‘Very handy. Well, Mr Blackman, if you wouldn’t mind getting hold of him while I see Miss Troy—’

‘Right.’

‘Fox and Co. ought to be here soon. We’ll go and look at the scene of action when they arrive. Where is Miss Troy?’

‘In the study. I’ll take you there. It’s across the hall.’

‘Don’t bother—I’ll find my way.’

‘Right you are—I’ll ring the doctor and join you there. I’ve got the rest of the class penned up in the dining-room with a PC on duty. They’re a rum lot and no mistake.’ said Blackman, leading the way into the hall. ‘Real artistic freaks. You know. There’s the library door. See you in a minute.’

Alleyn crossed the hall, tapped on the door, and walked in.

It was a long room with a fireplace at the far end. The only light there was made by the flicker of flames on the book-lined walls. Coming out of the brightly lit hall, he was at first unable to see clearly and stood for a moment inside the door.

‘Yes’ said a quick voice from the shadows. ‘Who is it? Do you want me?’

A slim, dark shape, outlined by a wavering halo of light, rose from a chair by the fire.

‘It’s me,’ said Alleyn. ‘Roderick Alleyn.’

‘You!’

‘I’m sorry to come in unannounced. I thought perhaps you would rather—’

‘But—yes, please come in.’

The figure moved forward a little and held out a hand. Alleyn said apologetically.

‘I’m coming as fast as I can. It’s rather dark.’

‘Oh!’ There was a moment’s pause, a movement, and then a shaded lamp came to life and he saw her clearly. She wore a long plain dress of a material that absorbed the light and gave off none. She looked taller than his remembrance of her. Her face was white under the short black hair. Alleyn took her hand, held it lightly for a second, and then moved to the fire.

‘It was kind of you to come,’ said Troy.

‘No, it wasn’t. I’m here on duty.’

She stiffened at once.

‘I’m sorry. That was stupid of me.’

‘If I was not a policeman,’ Alleyn said, ‘I think I should still have come. You could have brought about a repetition of our first meeting and sent me about my business.’

‘Must you always remind me of my ill manners?’

‘That was not the big idea. Your manners did not seem ill to me. May we sit down, please?’

‘Do.’

They sat in front of the fire.

‘Well,’ said Troy, ‘get out your notebook.’

Alleyn felt in the inside pocket of his dinner jacket.

‘It’s still there,’ he said. ‘The last time I used it was in New Zealand. Here we are. Have you had any dinner, by the way?’

‘What’s that got to do with it?’

‘Come, come,’ said Alleyn, ‘you mustn’t turn into a hostile witness before there’s anything to be hostile about.’

‘Don’t be facetious. Oh damn! Rude again. Yes, thank you, I toyed with a chunk of athletic hen.’

‘Good! A glass of port wouldn’t do you any harm. Don’t offer me any, please: I’m not supposed to drink on duty, unless it’s with a sinister purpose. I suppose this affair has shaken you up a bit?’

Troy waited for a moment and then she said: ‘I’m terrified of dead people.’

‘I know,’ said Alleyn. ‘I was, at first. Before the war. Even now they are not quite a commonplace to me.’

‘She was a silly little creature. More like a beautiful animal than a reasonable human. But to see her suddenly, like that—everything emptied away. She looked fairly astonished—that was all.’

‘It’s so often like that. Astonished, but sort of knowing. Are there any relatives to be informed?’

‘I haven’t the faintest idea. She lived alone—officially.’

‘We’ll have to try and find out.’

‘What do you want me to do now?’ asked Troy.

‘I want you to bring this girl to life for me. I know the circumstances surrounding her death—the immediate circumstances—and as soon as my men get here from London, I’ll look at the studio. In the meantime I’d like to know if any possible explanation for this business has occurred to you. I must thank you for having kept the place untouched. Not many people think like that on these occasions.’

‘I’ve no explanation, reasonable or fantastic, but there’s one thing you ought to know at once. I told the class they were not to speak of it to the police. I knew they’d all give exaggerated accounts of it, and thought it better that the first statement should come from me.’

‘I see.’

‘I’ll make the statement now.’

‘An official statement?’ asked Alleyn lightly.

‘If you like. When you move the throne you will find that a dagger has been driven through the boards from underneath.’

‘Shall we?’

‘Yes. You don’t say ‘How do you know?’

‘Well, I expect you’re going on to that, aren’t you?’

‘Yes. On the 10th, the first morning when I set this pose, I arranged it to look as if the figure had been murdered in exactly this way. Cedric Malmsley, one of my students, was doing a book illustration of a similar incident.’ She paused for a moment, looking into the fire. ‘During the rest they began arguing about the possibilities of committing a crime in this way. Hatchett, another student, got a knife that is in the junk-room, and shoved it through from underneath. Ormerin helped him. The throne was roughly knocked up for me in the village and the boards have warped apart. The blade is much narrower at the tip than at the hilt. The tip went through easily, but he hammered at the hilt to force it right up. The boards gripped the wider end. You will see all that when you look at it.’

‘Yes.’ Alleyn made a note in his book and waited.

‘The drape was arranged to hide the knife and it all looked quite convincing. Sonia was—she was quite—frightened. Hatchett pulled the knife out—it needed some doing—and we put everything straight again.’

‘What happened to the knife?’

‘Let me see. I think Hatchett put it away.’

‘From a practical point of view, how could you be sure that the knife would come through at exactly the right place to do what it has done?’

‘The position of the figure is chalked on the floor. When she took the pose, Sonia fitted her right hip and leg into the chalk marks, and then slid down until the whole of her right side was on the floor. One of the students would move her until she was inside the marks. Then she let the torso go over until her left shoulder touched the floor. The left hip was off the ground. I could draw it for you.’

Alleyn opened his notebook at a clean page and handed it to her with his pencil. Troy swept a dozen lines down and gave it back to him.

‘Wonderful!’ said Alleyn, ‘to be able to do that—so easily.’

‘I’m not likely to forget that pose,’ said Troy dryly.

‘What about the drape? Didn’t that cover the chalk-marks?’

‘Only in places. It fell from a suspension-point on the cushion to the floor. As she went down, she carried it with her. The accidental folds that came that way were more interesting than any laboured arrangement. When the students made their experiment they found the place where the heart would be, quite easily, inside the trace on the floor. The crack passed through this point. Hatchett put a pencil through the crack and they marked the position on the underside of the throne.’

‘Is there any possibility that they repeated this performance for some reason on Friday and forgot to withdraw the dagger?’

‘I thought of that at once, naturally. I asked them. I begged them to tell me.’ Troy moved her long hands restlessly. ‘Anything,’ she said, ‘anything rather than the thought of one of them deliberately—there’s no reason. I—I can’t bear to think of it. As if a beastly unclean thing was in one of their minds, behind all of us. And then, suddenly, crawled out and did this.’

He heard her draw in her breath sharply. She turned her head away.

Alleyn swore softly.

‘Oh, don’t pay any attention to me,’ said Troy impatiently. ‘I’m all right. About Friday. We had the morning class as usual from ten o’clock to twelve-thirty, with that pose. We all lunched at one. Then we went up to London. The private view of the Phoenix Group Show was on Friday night, and several of us had things in it. Valmai Seacliff and Basil Pilgrim, who were engaged to be married, left in his two-seater immediately after lunch. Neither of them was going to the private view. They were going to his people’s place, to break the engagement news, I imagine. Katti Bostock and I left in my car at about half-past two. Hatchett, Phillida Lee and Ormerin caught the three o’clock bus. Malmsley wanted to do some work, so he stayed behind until six, went up in the six-fifteen bus and joined us later at the show. I believe Phillida Lee and Hatchett had a meal together and went to a show. She took him to her aunt’s house in London for the weekend, I fancy.’

‘And the model?’

‘Caught the three o’clock bus. I don’t know where she went or what she did. She came back with Malmsley, Ormerin, Hatchett and Phillida Lee by yesterday evening’s bus.’

‘When Friday’s class broke up, did you all leave the studio together and come up to the house?’

‘I—let me think for a moment. No, I can’t remember; but usually we come up in dribbles. Some of them go on working, and they have to clean up their palettes and so on. Wait a second. Katti and I came up together before the others. That’s all I can tell you.’

‘Would the studio be locked before you went to London’

‘No.’ Troy turned her head and looked squarely at him.

‘Why not?’ asked Alleyn.

‘Because of Garcia.’

‘Blackman told me about Garcia. He stayed behind, didn’t he?’

‘Yes.’

‘Alone?’

‘Yes,’ said Troy unhappily. ‘Quite alone.’

There was a tap at the door. It opened and Blackman appeared, silhouetted against the brightly lit hall.

‘The doctor’s here, Mr Alleyn, and I think the car from London is just arriving.’

‘Right,’ said Alleyn. ‘I’ll come.’

Blackman moved away. Alleyn rose and looked down at Troy in her armchair.

‘Perhaps I may see you again before I go?’

‘I’ll be here or with the others in the dining-room. It’s a bit grim sitting round there under the eye of the village constable.’

‘I hope it won’t be for very long,’ said Alleyn.

Troy suddenly held out her hand.

‘I’m glad it’s you,’ she said.

They shook hands.

‘I’ll try to be as inoffensive as possible,’ Alleyn told her.

‘Goodbye for the moment.’